


Delicate Ghost

by hannigramcracker, TimmyJaybird



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannigramcracker/pseuds/hannigramcracker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was different- not the ghost of his memories, but something about this bloodied child ripped right at Hannibal's chest, and left him drowning in a cold snow he thought he had left in his childhood, that he had locked away within his skull. Drowning, with only one hand to grasp at, one body to cling to.</p><p>One man to work him through the trauma and remind him what <i>life</i> was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicate Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first collaboration I've ever done (not Hannigramcracker's first tho) and I'm really excited with what we've created! It was an absolute blast, and a lot of tears and crazy screaming messages.

Everything was proceeding normally. It was a very normal day, at a very run of-the-mill crime scene. Four dead, presumably the entire family, and the killer had gotten away seamlessly. Jack had called Will (of course), and Will had called Hannibal. The two of them arrived at nearly the same time, exchanging terse smiles. They had been ushered into the scene; under the yellow crinkling tape, up the wooden steps that cracked under their weight, and inside a door that squeaked and stuck on it's hinges. Hannibal could smell the blood the moment he walked in, it prickled up his nose and judging by the look on Will's face he could smell it as well. Jack had debriefed both of them on what they were likely to find, but he didn't know much about the family that was found dead in their master bedroom

And now, Hannibal stood outside the closed bedroom door, waiting for Will to be finished inside. Jack had wanted him to stay downstairs, almost insisted, but Hannibal knew that he wanted to be on hand if Will were to need him for any reason. Hannibal listened to Will's slow breathing echoing off the walls behind the door, and tried to envision what Will could be imagining. From what he had seen, it seemed significantly gruesome inside.

“Jesus.”

Hannibal's eyes snapped open and locked on the keyhole beneath the doorknob. Will's voice had come from inside, sharp and clear. He heard some shuffling around the room and Will whispering more words that he could not decipher. He strode forward and opened the door to the scene, expecting to see Will covered in stale blood and leftover bits of skin, but what he saw instead made the next breath he took catch in his throat.

In front of Will, there was a small girl, blood staining her clothes and hair, tears streaming down her face. Will was on his knees in front of her, hands splayed up in an attempt at a comforting gesture. 

“Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here with the police, sweetheart. I'm here to help you, I promise.”

Hannibal exhaled slowly through his nose and watched as the small girl slowly moved closer to Will. Hannibal began to move closer to Will as well, until the child locked eyes with him and froze. Will turned around to cast a glance over his shoulder, and upon seeing Hannibal requested he go get Jack. Hannibal nodded, unable to find his voice or break his sudden eye contact with the small bloodstained girl.

Finally closing his eyes, Hannibal turned briskly and descended the stairs to find Jack standing at the bottom.

“Is everything alright, Dr. Lecter?”

“How many people were in this family?”

“Five – the four in the room, and the smallest girl hasn't been found yet.” Jack answered. “Why? Does Will have a lead?”

“He has the girl. She was in the room. Alive.”

Jack immediately followed Hannibal up the stairs and allowed him to cross into the room in front of him. Hannibal hung back in the doorway while Jack approached Will and the child. His blood ran cold in his veins and he tried as hard as he could to stop the twinges of panic that were beginning to take root in his wrists. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, trying to keep himself from gasping, trying to keep his breaths even and measured. This small child was a little girl who had just been through the hardest twenty four hours of her life, not a little girl who was just a memory left over from Hannibal's personal hell. His breath came short and he reached out to brace himself against the door frame, still desperately trying to cling to the situation around him, trying to cling to the last shreds of control he had. Hannibal tried to focus on Will's mumbling words to the girl and not the cries reverberating through his skull, culminating to a pounding in his head.

_“ 'Annibal!”_

Hannibal closed his eyes tighter, still trying to center himself, still trying to hang on to the here and now. He was needed here, and he knew he was, but uneasiness settled in the small of his back and he felt himself twitching, ready to crawl out of his own skin. He wanted to tear at himself; dig his fingernails into his forearms and scratch, claw, peel his skin off and bleed himself dry and release the pent up anxiety and erase those memories from his life forever. He was ready to spread himself apart, layer by layer, if it meant that he was able to get out of his head for one moment and –

“Doctor Lecter.” His eyes snapped open, and there were three pairs of eyes looking back at him. Jack's were hard, Will's concerned, and the girl's timid. He had to stop himself raking his fingers up and down his left forearm before he even fully understood why he was doing it. “Can you help us out here so Will can keep analyzing the scene?”

“Of course,” Hannibal swallowed thickly, trying to push each of his thoughts away, back into the recesses of his mind, back down his throat and into the darkness of his stomach. His voice came a bit huskier than he intended, but there was nothing to be done for it. “What would you have me do, Jack?”  
Jack looked pointedly to the small child who was huddled around Will. “I think it would help if you went and talked to her.”

Hannibal sucked in a breath and nodded. “Absolutely.”

The girl whimpered, moving almost imperceptibly closer to Will. “Hey,” Will spoke quietly. “Hannibal is a nice man. I talk to him all the time. I trust him, so you can too, okay?”

Sniffling, the little girl nodded and disentangled herself from Will, ambling over to Hannibal. She hid herself from Jack behind Hannibal's legs, and he reached a hand down to pat her on the head before leading her out of the room. Her tiny hands gripped his pant legs, and Hannibal's heart clenched as they walk to an empty room down the hall. The walls are pink, and he assumed this was her room by the way she sits down on the small bed and seems to ask him to do the same. Hannibal's heart clenched almost painfully enough to draw a gasp out of him, and crossed his legs to try to distract himself from the small ways his body was betraying him. Everything – all of the emotion he was feeling, and the thoughts soaring through his head, along with the tiny twitching movements he couldn't stop his body from making – he knew they were all tells that he was not going to be able to keep himself together for very much longer, but he was going to hold on for as long as possibly could.

“What is your name?” Hannibal asked, needing a distraction, needing somewhere to start.

“Mariah.” She paused for a moment, and then in a small voice asked, “Are mommy and daddy dead?”

Hannibal's world spun, he could feel the floor and walls around him moving of their own volition. He felt motion sick, dizzy. His palms were sweating and his breath was coming short. He could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly; he knew he was gasping. He tightened his fists in on themselves, trying his hardest to pull himself back together, to reign himself back in in order to help this poor little girl. But he couldn't – he _couldn't_. His chest was too tight, he felt his ribs cracking. He could not breathe and the edges of everything he saw were blurred, blended and bled together like the outline of a watercolor painting. His surroundings looked like water after a stone was thrown into it, ripples everywhere, with Mariah as the focus, her features washing away to be replaced with those of a delicate ghost.

“Mister? Are you okay?”

“Y-yes. Mommy and daddy are dead, Mischa. There's not anything we can do.”

“Mischa? That's not my name, Mister? I said my name was Mariah.”

“ _Mischa..._ , mano meilė.”

“Mister...you're scaring me.”

Hannibal lost the ability to answer. His mouth was clamped shut, his body felt like it was on fire, breath coming in sharp puffs through his nose. He knew where he was, but his mind could not connect the two things. All he was able to think of was Mischa, Mischa, Mischa... He couldn't stop a moan escaping his lips, and at that Mariah shot off the bed. “I'm going to get you your friend, Mister. He'll be able to help you.”

As soon as Hannibal was alone in the room, the shreds of his resolve shattered. He wrapped his arms around his middle, rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed. His cheeks felt wet and he was not able to stop a harsh sob from falling out in broken pieces from behind his teeth.  
Will had closed his eyes once more, was slipping the pieces of the room back into their original unbloodied order, when the door squeaked, hinges crying out as it was jarred open. His eyelids fluttered and he turned, found the little girl staring in at him with wide, scared eyes. His brow crinkled- his only thought concerning Hannibal’s where abouts.

“Mister, your friend.” She kept her eyes locked on Will, not looking at the floor, the blood, anything that remained of the crime. “I think he’s sick.” Will turned, walking over to her briskly and fully opening the door. She trembled, slightly, and Will felt his rib cage shrinking, tightening along his lungs. He bent down, scooped her up and held her against his chest, her little arms reaching up to encircle his neck and hold on.

“Can you tell me where he is?” She nodded, pointed down the hallway at her room, and Will nodded. “Good job, thank you sweetheart.” He held her tightly as he made for the stairs instead, heading down them. Jack was waiting by the front door, mid discussion with Zeller when Will approached. “Jack.”  
The man turned, eyed the girl who was clinging to Will and looking intently at the wall, not at any of the men around her. “Where’s Dr. Lecter.”

Will licked his lips. He didn’t have an answer for that, and instead of responding, looked at Zeller and motioned with his head. Confused, Zeller raised his arms in confusion, only to have the little girl pressed into her arms.

“This is Brian,” Will said, flashing his charming smile. “He’s gonna hold onto you for a while, okay? I’m going to have Jack here call a friend of mine who I know you’ll like.” The little girl’s lip quivered, and Will reached out, brushed some of her blonde hair back. “Hey, it’s okay. I promise she’s really nice. She smells like flowers.”

The little girl, Mariah, smiled at that, whispered, “I like flowers.”

“Then you’ll love her.” Will turned to Jack, and said in a low voice, “Call Alana. Tell her there’s a child involved, she’ll be here in no time.”

“But where’s Doctor-“ Jack’s words fell on deaf ears as Will turned, bounding back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He grabbed the banister to help him turn, long strides taking him to the door that Mariah had pointed to. She had left it open, and Will leaned against the door frame, taking in Hannibal’s frame on the bed, curled up on himself. He could see his clutch on his own body was so tight his knuckles were going white.

“Hannibal?” He didn’t respond, his head tipped down, bangs loose, falling into his face. Will took a step in, heard Hannibal mumbling something to himself, unknown words spoken so quietly they could have been the ghost of the wind. Will swallowed the lump in his throat, his stomach uneasy. He’d never seen Hannibal in a condition less than perfect, except for his altercation with Tobias Budge- and even then, he had had an air of control about him.

This was not a man in control.

Hannibal rocked suddenly, a whine sliding out through his teeth, and Will was concerned he might be hurt. He closed the distance, dropping heavily to his knees on the hardwood floor, the pain jarring up through bones and shaking him for a moment. “Are you hurt?” When Hannibal didn’t respond, unable to, his mind so sure his mouth was frozen from a cold wind that existed only in his mental plane, Will tilted his head, tried to catch his eyes.

But the eyes he found were unseeing, glossed over and lost. He reached out, placed his hands on Hannibal’s knees, squeezed gently, his thumb tracing small circles into them.

Hannibal felt the hold, felt the stroke like little fingers playing in his hair. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t place where he was, barely knew _who_ he was in that moment. All he knew was there was a gash, growing tear in his chest, the kind that ached, that filled with burning embers over time and spread as tissue and flesh weakened and broke over the years. He felt cold, like he was frozen, soaked to the bone with snow. He inhaled, he tried to, he heard someone say _good, breathe_ , and the voice was two, laced, something familiar, something warm, and something dredged up from a broken memory. He whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut now, but the blackness didn’t fight off his other senses, didn’t even the vision.

Someone was saying his name, a little girl’s voice, “’Annibal,” in a small whimper, and he was sinking into the snow, drowning in it, the hands on his knees turning to hands on his chest, clutching, grasping desperately. Little fingers that needs to hold onto something. He wrapped his arms around the skeleton of a girl in his arms as her fingers, ice cold, touched his face. Over the smell of snow, of dirt that was old and frozen, he smelled the flowers that had been braided into her hair, once upon a lifetime ago.

“Hannibal!” The voice changed, and Hannibal stared at the little girl clinging to him. Her honey eyes locked with his, lonely and wide in a childlike sadness that made his chest collapse.

“Mischa,” he whispered, and she felt lighter in his arms. Through her, he could see the snow, as she turned to film, her color fading, spots bursting where she no longer existed. “Mischa!” He tried to clutch her to him, reached out and pressed her to his chest, falling back into the snow in an attempt to drown them both, freeze them in time where there was nothing except an endless heartbeat shared by two.

His eyes opened when he felt a hand on his neck, suddenly, applying a gentle pressure. He was no longer settled in the snow, there was no girl with the ghosts of flowers in her hair, no honey eyes and sad childlike smile. There was a small bed beneath him, and a man positioned between his legs, hovering over him, pressing down on his throat, his thumb stroking where his pulse raced in ways it never had.

“You were about to hyperventilate,” Will whispered, his eyes a storm of grays, concerned. “Relax. I’m going to move my hand, take a deep breath for me Hannibal.” He pulled back, and the loss of contact made Hannibal feel light, like a weight was lifted from his ankles, as if he could float suspended over reality. He licked his lips and inhaled, deeply. “Good. Exhale for me. Slow.” Hannibal did, focused in on the constricting of his lungs as the air was pushed out of him. He felt dizzy towards the end, until one of Will’s hands brushed along his arm. “Good. Can you sit up?”

Will backed away and Hannibal pushed himself up. His hair was free and slightly tussled, something Will had never seen before, and his fingers flexed, itched to correct it. He dared not touch, not too much. Hannibal swayed a moment, but then stayed sitting upright, his hands running down along his own thighs.

“What happened?” Will whispered, and Hannibal opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no lie waiting, no cover for his slip. The only thing he had was the truth, a truth he did not share. And in a house that had the dead slumbering within, a house strange and foreign, the truth felt even more _wrong_. Too sacred for a place such as this.

Will saw Hannibal tensing up again, and clicked his tongue. “Hey, it’s okay.” He reached out, rested his hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, squeezed gently. The man looked up at him, the touch creating a connection, as if Will could suddenly let his heat zip through the fibers of Hannibal’s veins beneath flesh that felt cold, despite the comfortable temperature of the room. “Maybe we should get some fresh air?”

Hannibal nodded, and stood up as Will pulled back. He followed him out of the room, his body feeling heavy and disconnected. He couldn’t feel the scuffed wooden floors beneath his shoes, yet he couldn’t comprehend how a body made of lead could float into the air- a body weighed down with the ghost of a girl child clinging to his back. Hannibal could smell flowers, the light, fresh kind- sweet and crisp, and his throat was closing all over again.

He had made it down a few stairs when he had to grasp the railing, the scent suffocating him, drowning him, feeling as if Mischa’s arms were around his neck, holding him from behind as she clung. He tried to forced himself to take another step, just one more, to get the motion once again, but he was frozen.

Will realized as he was mid way down the stairs that he couldn’t hear Hannibal’s footsteps. He looked over his shoulder, saw he was frozen a few steps away, gripping the railing. Will looked back towards the door, saw a cluster of agents, and cursed under his breath. He turned, making his way back to Hannibal, one hand cover his on the railing.

“Hey,” he whispered, and Hannibal looked at him. The subtle motion let one of his ribs release the pressure along his lungs. “Hannibal, it’s okay. We’re almost out.” Will had no idea if that was the _right_ thing to say- had no idea what was even swimming around inside the ocean within Hannibal’s skull, but he could only imagine that the house wasn’t helping.

Hannibal swallowed, Will watched the motion, and without thinking pried Hannibal’s hand from the railing, grasping it in his own. Their fingers entangled in a way that made Will’s stomach fluttery, and he pushed the thoughts aside. “Just stay right behind me. I’ll get you out of here.”

Hannibal watched him turn, take a step, another, until their arms were taught. Carefully, he managed to follow suit, keeping his steps in time with Will’s, focusing on the rhythm, blocking out everything else. The arms around his neck turned to icy fingers in his hair, tugging, burning frost along his scalp, and the flowers remained. He wanted to press back into it, let Mischa have his mind, but something was driving him forward, into Will.

His feet hit the floor and Will paused until they were close, until their hands were concealed. He mumbled something to the agents as the door, and they parted. Hannibal followed Will through them, out into the night, into pleasant air that had no chill, no bite, no ice.

Will led him across the lawn, to the curb, towards Will’s own car, stopping only when the house was a busy glow behind them. He released Hannibal’s hand, turned, leaning back against the side of the hood of his car. He wanted to ask if Hannibal was _okay_ , but it seemed a trivial and pointless question. The man seemed devoid of color, his eyes frantic, pupils too small for him. The burgundy was almost washed out.

Will didn’t know what to say. He tried to think, to the many ways Hannibal talked him down from his attacks, but his mind was blank, a virgin page that he couldn’t reach to caress. He pushed himself from the car, reached out to Hannibal and ran his hand along his arm. Hannibal looked at him then, and Will forced a smile for the man’s sake. “Do you know who I am?”

“ _William_.” Will nodded.

“Good. Do you know where you are?” Hannibal licked his lips, couldn’t recall the actual location. His hesitation prompted Will. “You’re at a crime scene. You had a...” he trailed off, unsure what to call it, and left it nameless. “I don’t think you should go back in.”

Hannibal nodded, inhaling through his nose. Will was close, and the deep breathed filtered his scent in, something warm and earthy- lacking that noxious after shave of his. Somewhere in the recesses of Hannibal’s mind, he was thankful for that.

“Maybe you should lay down.” Will kept a hold of Hannibal’s arm, rubbing up along it soothingly. “Baltimore is too far away. How about you come home with me? Clear your head.” Will felt his own throat tightening at the offer, and felt compelled to keep talking suddenly, to bury it. It was too much. “You don’t have to talk. I just think you need to get away-“

“You’re...correct, William.” Hannibal reached up, ran his hand along his face, the muscles pulled tight under skin, feeling tired. He took another deep breath, flowers and Earth, Will and the dead. Honey and smoke. But he felt the ground beneath his feet, he felt Will’s touch along his arm. He felt reality, even if the edge were frayed. “If it would not be too much trouble, I would appreciate it.”

Hannibal didn’t want to entertain thoughts of his empty home in Baltimore. The quiet way the house slept, it invited ghosts, memories, the invisible turned solid. It beckoned the cold and the girl hidden within the snow drifts of his memories. Will’s home at least offered life, a secluded sort with scents and sounds and textures he still had yet to memorize. It could be enough to jar him from this vortex that was sucking him in so deeply.

Will exhaled, nodding, licking his lips and trying to imagine Hannibal in his home at night, with a lamp lit and the yellowish light bathing over the juts of bone in his face. “Okay,” he said, licking his lips again, hoping against hope it was the right decision. “Okay.”

Hannibal nodded his assent, letting his eyes slip shut. He felt a tentative hand on his elbow and allowed himself to be led to the passenger side of Will’s car. He opened his eyes again as he heard the distinctive click of the door being opened. Will’s hand settled on his back lightly, gently ushering him inside. 

Hannibal’s breath left his lungs once again as the sound of Will snapping the door shut echoed around inside his head. It was a gunshot in the barren landscape of his mind; one that took away his darling Mischa and one that took away his ability to breathe. His head spun and his knuckles cracked as he balled his hands into fists tight enough that he was sure to be drawing blood. 

“Hannibal?” He snapped his head in Will’s direction. His chest heaved. “Hannibal, everything is okay. We’re leaving, okay? Breathe.” 

Hannibal tried, he really did, but it got caught in his throat. He tried another, and it snagged between his teeth and tangled around his tongue. The air solidified and he choked on it. He was breathing in dust and ash and dirt; he was in the dark on the balcony of a small house, with his sister bundled up in his lap, squirming beneath the tatty blanket that was given to the both of them. They were taking her from him again, ripping her from his arms and he was gnashing his teeth and growling at them, lashing out, but being unable to move fully because of the chain around his neck. They took her bracelet, they took her stuffed bear, and now they were taking her. The last shred of anything he had to tie him to humanity. 

A hand on his knee brought him from his thoughts, and for a moment he was expecting to see Mischa there; to see a tiny hand with slender fingers, but instead he saw a twitching hand with calloused fingers. He recognize Will and his surroundings started to unfurl around him, but the colors were still held in sharp contrast - like he was looking at a negative print of a picture he saw every day. Will rubbed his thumb against the outside of Hannibal’s knee. “Please, Hannibal, breathe for me.” 

Hannibal heard himself moan, the sound thin and drawn out. “ _C-ca-n’t._ ” 

He rocked forward and splayed his hands out on Will’s dashboard, trying to use the smoothness to bring him back into himself. He ran his hands over the slightly bumpy surface, letting the cool seep into his skin. Panic still had its hooks deep in his wrists, he could feel it pulsing each time blood passed through his veins. There was a fire in his chest that would not stop burning, no matter what he did in an attempt to vanquish it. 

Will’s hand was on his back now, rubbing a small circle. Hannibal leaned into it, gritting his teeth and trying to let air pass through them and into his aching lungs. It was endlessly frustrating, not being able to satiate his need for breath, when the thing he needed was all around him and there for the taking. If only his body would listen, if only his mind would pay attention to where he was. If only he could keep the hands on his back attached to Will in his mind, and not to the awful men who took him and touched him and pushed him and dragged him. 

He was panting in earnest now, breath only coming out of his throat in harsh gasps, and none being replaced. His hands trembled against the plastic of Will’s dashboard so hard, it seemed as though he was moving them purposefully. Quickly, he brought his arms in to press against his chest. He rubbed them up and down against his sternum, another clipped moan issuing from his teeth. They were starting to chatter. 

“Hannibal…” Will’s voice sounded unsure and Hannibal felt awful for worrying him so. Suddenly, he was aware that the car they were both sitting in was not moving. They were no closer to being away from that house; the scene, the blood, the bodies, the _gir_ l. Gathering all the control he possibly could, he looked over to Will and made eye contact with the stormy pair of eyes he found. He reached backwards to clutch onto the seat belt. It took all of his energy to get the metal piece into the slot. He stared forward, taking a stunted breath. 

“Prašom.” He whispered. “Prašom.” 

“Do...do you want me to drive?” Hannibal nodded, a stuttering motion. He clenched his jaw as Will started the engine and the car slowly eased into motion. The vibrations from the engine were helping to ground him minutely, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing right now was enough, and nothing short of Mischa in his arms again would be. 

Everyone one of his muscles was a ball of hot tension, twinging and prickling beneath his skin. His shoulders and neck and lower back were surely harboring knives, their sharp points dug deep beneath the skin. Watching the world pass through the window was making him feel sick, so he shut his eyes again, only to be met with a scene that made him feel even worse. 

 

He gazed down at the white ground beneath him, glistening and glittering in the late afternoon sun. The snow was stained and splotched in red, maroon so deep it was almost brown in places. He remembered so clearly, staring into the blood that was supposed be inside of his sister. Beneath her skin, coursing within her veins. They had taken her from his arms, and her blonde curls bouncing away were the last part of her he had seen. The last part of her he had seen put together like she was supposed to be. He could remember seeing bits of her scrambled and spread out - the bits they couldn’t eat. Sinew and bone, torn apart like the work of an animal. A pile of her teeth and stuck out clearly in the snow, white on white, but he had seen. He had even picked up one of her small molars, and placed it in his pocket, trying to satisfy his intense need to be close to her, to be with her. He had seen one of the horrible, brutish men sucking on one of her little fingers. He had screamed and lunged at that man, and when he had woken up he was chained back to that staircase. 

They had been waiting for him to wake up. Waiting with a bowl of hot soup. They spoon fed him with evil smirks twisting their mouths, and Hannibal knew what they were feeding him. He ate every bite, out of spite. His stomach had hurt and his mind had gone blank. After they were gone, he reached into his pocket and thumbed at the tiny broken tooth, feeling closer to Mischa than he had since they had taken her from him. 

Hannibal leaned forward in Will’s car again, moisture pooling at the corners of his eyes and catching in his cheekbones. The seat belt caught him before he could lean forward as much as he wanted to. He leaned his forehead on the dashboard, groaning low in his throat. He thrust one hand into his pocket and fished around for a moment, before realizing it had been upwards of thirty years and he had lost the last piece of Mischa he had clung to when he had finally run free from his captors those many years ago. 

A jagged sob tore the air in the car. The silent air that was filled with only the sounds of Hannibal’s distress; that same air that would not find its home in his lungs no matter how much he coaxed. One hand clenching into a hard fist in his pocket, he pressed his other hand to his mouth and pushed the back of it against his lips so hard his shoulder shook. He sunk his own teeth into the spongy skin between his pointer finger and thumb, trying to stifle the cries that were coming from his throat in time with panicked pulse through his veins. Blood poured into his mouth and he sucked around his teeth, swallowing, tasting Mischa, his breath condensing against his knuckles. No, no, _no_.

He tore his hand away, blood and spittle trailing down his chin, and he hung his head, eyes wild. 

“Will,” He said urgently, his voice nearing a breaking point. “Will. _Will!_ ” 

He was screaming, knotting his hands into his hair and tugging, tugging, tugging, blood still leaking from the angry bite mark on his hand. He lurched forward, sobbing fully, unable to keep himself from it anymore. The dam was broken, and the waters were barreling in, destroying everything in its wake. There was no way Hannibal could swim through the tsunami. 

He felt Will pull the car onto the side of the road and felt him reach over to unbuckle the seat belt that held him up. Hannibal leaned heavily onto WIll’s shoulder, unable to stop the sobs wracking through his tired body. He had given up, surrendered to the emotions that he usually tried so diligently to keep at bay. They were here, and there was nothing he could do to stop them now. 

Will felt his heart looping along inside his ribs as he reached for Hannibal, let the man lean into his shoulder and sob brokenly, gasp for breath between his whines. He reached out, ran his hand along his upper arm, felt Hannibal shaking- or was it him? Will couldn’t tell at this point, all he knew was that he felt ill seeing Hannibal in such a state.

“Hannibal,” he whispered, “Hannibal it’s okay. It’s okay.” He wanted to hush him, to make the rest of the drive home. They weren’t far now, and the car was so far from ideal for _anyone_ to have a break down- let alone one of scale to Hannibal’s- but Will couldn’t bring himself too. He sucked on his own tongue and ran his hand up Hannibal’s arm, over the curve of his shoulder and along his neck, daring to slip fingers into his hair. “Hush,” he whispered, his voice seeping back into a twang he had not used around anyone but himself and the dogs in a long time. “Hush ‘Annibal.” His fingers stroked along the man’s scalp, and Will forced himself to take a slow breath, to not think about how often he’d thought about switching positions with the man, and letting him soothe him through his own fits.

It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. Hannibal needed someone in that moment, and Will knew he was his only option. He owed it to his friend to try to be whatever he needed.

Hannibal buried his face into Will, his curls tickling his cheeks. Soft, soft like Mischa’s had been, when she clung to him for comfort, curled up in his lap during cold nights. He inhaled, expected to smell her- but received only Will. It shook him, to his core, and Hannibal opened his eyes as Will stroked fingers through his hair again. He shivered, Will’s fingers felt like fire compared to the ice he expected.

“‘Annibal, can you ‘ear me?” Hannibal lifted his head, caught Will’s gaze, and tilted his head into the hand that was working through his hair. “S’okay ‘Annibal. I’m ‘ear.” Somewhere inside Hannibal, the last strands of rational thought were keying into Will’s sudden accent, the last traces of his life in the Bayou, but those thoughts never reached the surface, never penetrated the crust of frozen snow that kept his memories now fresh on the surface, and not within the cave of his chest.

“Will.” The name was thick with Hannibal’s own accent, heavy on his tongue, tumbling out gracelessly. He felt Will’s hand tighten in his hair.

“Look at me.” Hannibal tried to hold Will’s gaze- something usually difficult for the other man and not himself- and Will stared right back. “Take a deep breathe. Can you do that for me?” Hannibal tried, tried to open his lungs, but they ached, ached like they had been pierced by countless needles. The breath tumbled back out quickly, dizzying, and Hannibal tried again, succeeding in holding it in for a moment before letting it out. “Good.” Those fingers stroked again, then Will was pulling away- and Hannibal was chasing his touch, leaning towards it, whimpering. The ground was cracking open beneath him, until Will placed a hand against his shoulder, guiding him so he was resting back against the seat again. For a moment to cracking ceased. “We’re close now.”

Hannibal said nothing, felt the aches turning into a numbness, spreading from where Will touched his shoulder. He craved it, needed the lack of feeling, and when Will pulled away he gave a small whine. “Sugrįžti.”

 

Will didn’t know what Hannibal had said, all he knew was that they couldn’t sit on the side of the road all night. With an ache in his chest, he pulled the car back onto the road, intent on making it home as quickly as possible. Next to him, Hannibal was leaning back, staring with blinking yet unseeing eyes at the roof of the car, and Will spared him a glance whenever he could. When the man whimpered “Mischa,”- another word Will didn’t know- he reached over and sought out his hand, clutching it tightly.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice having slipped back into the accentless sound he had worked so hard to craft and maintain. He squeezed Hannibal’s hand as the road curved and he saw his house in sight, and felt Hannibal squeezed back with desperate force.

Will exhaled softly as he killed the engine, looked at Hannibal, at the dark house behind him. They’d _made it_. He fought with his seat belt and stepped out of the car quickly, walking around the open Hannibal’s door, reaching in and brushing a hand along his hidden collar bone, to curl around his shoulder. “Hey,” he whispered, “We’re here. C’mon, let’s get inside.”

Hannibal looked at him, blinked away the haze of his vision, saw Will staring at him with concerned eyes, and forced a nod. He slipped out of the ar, Will’s hand on his elbow, and Will shut the door. The sound reverberated in Hannibal’s skull like a gunshot, made him dizzy. He took a deep breath- an action that burned his lungs but he forced it- and looked up, at the stars as they danced above in the dark sky. “I’m sorry,” he whispered- to Will, to her, to himself, he wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter. He was sorry to all of them.

“Hey, don’t apologize.” Will’s hand had moved to the small of his back, the contact enough to keep him pulled out of his body, into Will’s, into the present for a brief moment. “Let’s get you inside. C’mon.” Will guided him, only removing his touch to fish his keys from his pocket. Hannibal gave a little whine when he did so, and once the door was unlocked, Will was quick to reach back, gently grab him by his wrist and guide him inside.

The dogs all lifted their heads, wagging their tails, poised to run over for a greeting. Will _tss’ed_ and they relaxed, watching, as Will guided Hannibal not to a chair or the couch, but to his bed, helping him to sit on the edge. If Will were to look back, he’d have no explanation for it, no real reasoning except that it was where he would want Hannibal to lead him, to soothe him. That was all he had to work with. He settled next to Hannibal with a small groan, and the sound made Hannibal blink.

He was with Will, he kept repeating it in his head. _He was with Will._ “I truly apologize, William,” he whispered, running a hand along his face, “I am...not myself tonight.” Will just nodded, and Hannibal looked over at him, studying the blue that seeped into the grey of his eyes, the soft half smile he was offering Hannibal without reserve. There was something there, something in that smile that reminded him of her- something that made his chest ache but let him breathe finally. His fingers itched to reach out, to trace it, but he kept them firmly at his sides. “I feel I owe you answers.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Will offered, reaching down, covering Hannibal’s hand with his own. “Don’t worry. If you wanna talk, we can. If not, we don’t have to. We can sit here. All night if we need to.” Will squeezed his hand, and Hannibal’s stomach tied itself in knots, a tangled mess of despair and longing over his Mischa, of anger at himself for allowing his walls to shatter so completely, of an overwhelming affection for Will that threatened to present itself too strongly. He swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling dizzy, feeling sick with it all- it was too much, too fast, too soon.

They sat, the two of them, for a while. The room was dark around them, and Hannibal focused every piece of him on just breathing. Breathing and keeping the tears from collecting in the corners of his eyes again. Will had seen quite enough of Hannibal’s emotions for the evening, or so Hannibal thought. 

Hannibal’s fingers twitched beneath the covering of Will’s hand, but the other man did not make any move to take his hand away, and Hannibal was thankful for that. He didn’t know what he would have done if he had been forced to deal with the bereft emptiness he felt when Will was not touching him, and he was glad that Will was perceptive enough to know what he needed without overstepping any boundaries. Hannibal was sure that if he was alone, he would tear himself apart from the inside out. He could still feel the tremors in his hands, the heady buzz and tug of panic in the veins in his arms. His breathing was mostly even, but shallow. Every third breath was more of a gasp, but Will did not call attention to it. Nor did he call attention to the way Hannibal’s right knee began jumping, betraying the fact that Hannibal was still nearly crawling out of his skin. 

Hannibal leaned his head back as far as it would go, letting his eyes fall open wide and blinking rapidly. He _would_ not start crying in front of Will again. It would not do to be this undignified. He was better than this. He had put so many years and so much effort into controlling himself; so much that one tiny girl wringing her hands in front of him should not have been able to undo. Will’s thumb began to move in small slow strokes over the soft flesh of the back of Hannibal’s hand and he let out a breath he had not known he was holding. Immediately following the breath, a tear slid from the corner of his eye and he felt it drag wetly down the contours of his face. He moaned slightly as it escaped, hating himself more and more each second for the amount of weakness he was showing. 

His lip trembled and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose, trying to clear his chest of the ache that had settled there. He felt more tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and he knew there was going to be no stopping them. He did not have the energy anymore. He did not even have enough energy to sob. The tears fell quietly, his shoulders shaking and heaving slightly. Hannibal leaned forward, moving his hand from it’s place beneath Will’s to entwine with his other hand. He rested his forearms against his thighs and bent his head forward, hunching his shaking shoulders. 

“Hey,” Will said, and Hannibal felt a hand lightly settle against his back. “You’re okay, Hannibal.” Hannibal’s shoulders hitched and he felt Will rubbing a small circle between his shoulder blades. “Let it out. It’s all alright.” 

Hannibal brought a hand to his face and rubbed roughly. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and opened his mouth to speak. It took him a moment to coax his voice into coming out between the slightly frantic puffs of air. When it did come out, it was deep and rough, accented more than it had been in years. “I...I had a sister.” 

Will nodded next to him and Hannibal watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. He knew Will was trying to decide if he should speak, what he should say, and Hannibal knew it was now or never. “She is dead, now.” 

 

Will moved his hand on his back to rest his arm across Hannibal’s shoulders and pull him closer until Hannibal’s head nearly rested on his shoulder. When he spoke, Hannibal felt his lips against the crown of his head and was surprised at how much comfort that the closeness was bringing him. “Thank you for telling me.” 

Hannibal stayed where he was, motionless for fear of shattering the small feelings fleeting calm that washed over him from being pressed so close against Will. His good Will, who knew not to give him pity, who knew not to press further, who knew to keep his hold on his shoulders tight lest he float away back up into the memories he had tried to push down for decades. 

He pressed a hand flat against his aching forehead, and burrowed slightly closer to Will, sighing softly. Will clicked his tongue. “Does your head hurt?” Hannibal hummed, keeping his eyes shut and his cheek pressed to Will’s shoulder. “Let me get you some aspirin, okay?”

Hannibal lifted his head slightly to allow Will to move, suddenly completely exhausted. Will patted Hannibal’s back softly before getting off the bed. Hannibal sniffed, watching Will reach into the bedside table and bring out a bottle of pills. They rattled inside of the plastic. “I’ll be right back with some water, and then maybe you can try to get some sleep.” Will suggested and Hannibal nodded, knowing they both were aware of how tired he was. 

Will was back in a moment, with a glass full of water. Hannibal smiled up at him and swallowed a few pills before making to stand up. “Oh, no, wait. Hannibal, you can stay here. I don’t have a guest room, and this is more comfortable than the couch. I usually sleep out there, anyway.” 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Will.” 

“It’s honestly the least I can do. I’m sorry I don’t have something more accommodating.” 

“Do not apologize. Everything you have is perfect.” 

Will nodded as Hannibal made to remove his tie and dress shirt. Hannibal tried to ignore how much his fingers still shook and he fumbled with the various layers of fabric. Will took his shirt and tie and laid them over the back a chair in the corner. Hannibal folded down the covers on Will’s bed and slipped inside, his eyes stinging and lids heavy. He cracked his eyes open as his head hit the pillow, watching Will stand in the shadows. His heart suddenly clenched with the thought of Will leaving and him being alone in the darkness. 

“Stay with me.” He was too tired to even hate how uncharacteristically small and weak his voice was. He heard Will exhale before he answered. 

“Where else would I go?” 

Hannibal let his eyes drop closed, and let the calming tendrils of the beginnings of sleep take him. He did not feel Will sit down on the mattress with him, but that was okay. He knew Will would not leave him if he promised he would stay. 

\---

_Hands, hands all over him. Hands touching his hair, his arms, his legs, his feet. Hands in his eyes, in his mouth. Hands taking something warm from his lap no matter how much he held on. Hands running up and down his back, his thighs, violating him. Hands and forearms and eyes, and nothing else. Three pieces of a body unattached to anything else, repeated over and over in the darkness, probing him beneath his blanket._

_He was alone, he was cold, and he was hungry. Gnawingly hungry._

_The hands back on him, hands without fingernails, soft fingertips pressing in. Eyes without eyelids, staring, staring, staring…_

_A tiny scream, growing louder and longer and higher and higher, reaching a terrible crescendo and dying out, piercing his eardrums and echoing forever._

_The hands back, the arms. Reaching blindly, independent from the eyes, twisting and turning and tangling. Holding a tiny pair of broken bloody hands, two small shockingly blue eyes, clumps of white-blonde hair. Three empty hands reached fingers into his mouth, prying it open, breaking his jaw, cracking his teeth._

_Hands came forth once more, surging, a sea. A tidal wave, crashing over each other, crashing onto him. Blackness and hands and eyes._

_And the hands were in his mouth, touching each of his teeth, rubbing his tongue, caressing his cheeks._

_He was alone, he was freezing, and he was choking around the hands._

_Then something was being pushed into his mouth. Something wet and round and smooth and it slid down his throat. He saw something in another hand before it was pressed past his lips and teeth and he knew in an instant. An eye._

_Her eye._

_Both of her eyes._

_Followed by her dead hands, dead fingers, joints bending as they were forced down his throat. Her hair filled his mouth like cotton and wrapped around his tongue and tangled itself between his teeth. Cold clammy fingers pressed the wads in and rubbed at his throat, forcing him to swallow. He choked and cried, muffled by tresses of blonde flowing from his parted lips---_

Hannibal awoke with a jolt, clawing at his chest, throwing the blankets off of himself and away. He curled in on himself, touching every bit of his own skin as he could, with his own trembling hands instead of cold disembodied hands. 

 

He swallowed, harshly, dryly, and his stomach twisted and heaved. A hand around his middle and one over his mouth, he groaned and lurched from the bed. He fell to his knees and reached out blindly for a trash basket that he only hoped was located beside the bed. Blearily, he came into contact with one and twisted to lean over it. He breathed shallowly for a moment before retching and heaving painfully and fruitlessly a few times. He heard another bout of commotion from behind him, but was too preoccupied with the task at hand. 

A moan tore its way from his throat and leaned forward again, waiting. His breath sped up and he felt saliva pooling at his cheeks. He knew what was coming, and tears began to gather as well. With a white-knuckled grip on the trash basket, he retched once more before vomiting into it. He was barely able to gasp for a breath before he was heaving again, his stomach still twisting and churning inside of him. 

Once he was able to breathe quietly for a full minute, he registered Will’s hand on his back, rubbing soothingly. He dragged a hand across his mouth, but made no effort to stand or move at all. 

“Are you going to be sick again?” Will asked, a hand on his shoulder, one still rubbing dutifully down his spine. Hannibal closed his eyes and nodded, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming nausea. He let his head hang over the small waste basket, fought down the painful clenching of his stomach, and heard Will speaking softly, “It’s okay Hannibal, it’s okay, just let go.”

Hannibal gasped for breath, felt the bile rising in his throat again, and coughed, whining as he vomited once more. His shoulders trembled, but he felt Will’s hand pressing between them, solid and grounding, as he hushed him softly. Hannibal sucked in a breath, pushing back against Will’s hand as he sat up slowly, the sour taste in his mouth making him want to claw his own tongue out. 

Neither moved for a moment, except for Will’s hand as it rubbed soothingly between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. Slowly, his trembling began to subside, as the nausea ebbed at the corners, turned to a dull ache in his gut that he could contain. He heard Will whisper quietly, “Do you want to get back into bed?” And Hannibal nodded. Will shifted around, took the waste basket from him, and helped him up, settling him back onto the mattress. Hannibal leaned back against the pillows, sitting, and watched Will disappear into the darkness. He wanted to grab him, to beg him to stay, but he forced through the haze of his mind and told himself Will _would be back_.

Will would always come back.

He closed his eyes, forced himself to take a deep breath. Oddly, he felt rather empty in that moment, as if he had purged everything from his body and he was left with a shell- a container that could be filled again. If there was only something to pour inside.

When Will returned, it wasn’t empty handed. He offered Hannibal a small glass of water, which the man took in silence, his fingers brushing along Will’s, leaving the digits warm, a heat that radiated into Hannibal’s palm as he clutched the glass, took a long swallow from it. It eased the sickening taste in the back of his throat, soothed the burn there as well. He felt it drop into his belly, like ice- and he tried hard to not connect it to prying, chilled fingers, to the way they slipped down his throat.

Will took the glass from his hand, set it aside, and sat on the edge of the bed. His hand found Hannibal’s thigh, ran along it in a touch that was familiar in a way neither man could fully explain. The younger man said nothing, and Hannibal welcomed that, welcomed the way he drew no attention to his utter undoing, the way he did not pry more another word. The opportunity was there, if Hannibal wanted it, for conversation, but the silence was offered as well- a more intimate token than any words Will could speak to him.

Hannibal wanted him closer. He felt like there were strings poking out through every pore, tugging a tight connection between he and Will that he couldn’t explain- a true unknown in his life that left an unease in his veins. All he knew was that he wanted- needed- more. He nearly whined when Will’s hand pulled away, bit it back because he couldn’t stand the thought of appearing more broken than he already had- and yet, he wondered what the point of hiding was at this point. Will had seen him exposed, broken, yearning and aching and terrified- what more was there to hide from this man?

The bed shifted, and Hannibal, in the palest light from outside, could see Will moving, until he was stretched out next to him. “Why don’t you lay down?” he whispered, and Hannibal let himself sink into the mattress, the pillows, and felt Will’s hand running along his arm. It would have been strange, this closeness, this intimacy, with anyone else. But with Will, it felt natural, welcomed.

“Thank you,” Hannibal whispered, his voice thick, tired, and Will smiled in the dark, a sad sort of smile.

“You would have done the same for me,” Will offered, “Hell, you _do_ the same for me, all the time.” The hand on Hannibal’s arm stilled, fingers reaching out, just brushing his side. A silent request, a test of boundaries- boundaries that Hannibal was barely sure existed at this point, boundaries he didn’t _want_ to exist.

He reached across his own body, grabbed Will’s hand, pulling his arm over him, and suddenly Will was there, pressed along his side, arm draped over him- warm, solid, a real living presence that dragged the chill from his very bones, replaced it with heat. A small breath escaped him, and he closed his eyes, focusing on it, felt Will’s hand gripping his side, the stubble along his face brushed along Hannibal’s shoulder. His ribs tightened, but the pain had an odd fluttering too it, a difference to the feeling of cold fingers grasping at his lungs and tightening, choking off his air.

“She was so small,” Hannibal whispered, his tongue finding a life he had not meant it to find. Will’s arm tightened around him, and he shifted, turning to his side so he could face the man. Even in the dark, his eyes were _there_ , bluer than Hannibal had ever seen. “She would have liked this,” he added, thinking of the blue in Will’s eyes, how she would have spun under the sun in a dress the same shade, laughed and called out to him in her honeyed voice, small arms outstretched.

Will said nothing, pulling Hannibal closer, so they fit together in ways neither had known they could. Hannibal felt small in that moment, where he had always felt large compared to Will, as if he could be enveloped, get lost in the man. His forehead rested just under his collar bone, and when he inhaled, it was all warmth, an Earthiness that Hannibal pressed into. One of Will’s hands found his hair, stroked into, fingertips brushing his scalp.

“She was perfect,” Hannibal whispered, eyes closed, and he felt Will but saw her-but not cold, not clawing and clinging. She was alive then, smiling beneath pale golden waves, with those honey eyes and a breath of life Hannibal had never seen in another. He pressed closer, one of his legs slipping between Will’s wanting to be so entangled he did not know where he began or ended, only that the two of them were suddenly one-

He needed someone else to take this, to shoulder it, to give him a moment to breathe. And Will was offering, he had offered when he first came to Hannibal in the house, had clutched at his throat and told him to _breathe_. Will was offering the one thing Hannibal had never been given, in all these years.

Peace of mind, a true silence of the heart.

“I’m sure she was,” Will whispered, his mouth in Hannibal’s hair- not a kiss, but a caress, something so tender that Hannibal gave a small whine. “Is, even. In your mind, Hannibal. You keep her alive and perfect.” Hannibal clutched at Will, wanted to drink down those words, to internalize them and make them a reality. _Make his Mischa alive_. “What was her name?”

Hannibal opened his mouth, but the words came out dry, a husk. He swallowed, tried again, and this time his voice was thick, nearly palpable in the air, “Mischa.”

“Mischa,” Will repeated, and the world around Hannibal cracked suddenly. He trembled, violently, and Will clutched him, held him close. “‘Annibal,” he said, worried, his accent peppering Hannibal’s name suddenly, but the older man was shaking his head.

“Again,” he whispered, “Please. Say her name again.” Will pulled back, looked down at him as Hannibal lifted his own head- eyes catching, snaring, not a hint of trepidation on Will’s part, so unlike him.

“Mischa,” Will offered, and Hannibal’s heart banged against his ribs, clanging like metal inside his body. “Mischa.” Hannibal leaned closer, staring at Will’s lips, the way they formed the name no one had dared to speak, not even him. A dead name, suddenly with a beating heart.

“Mischa,” Hannibal added, and Will’s hands were in his hair, tilting his face up, leaning closer. When he spoke, his breath ghosted over Hannibal’s mouth, warm and enlivening.

“Mischa.” It was quite, small, that first pulse when the victim had been long pronounced dead. Hannibal drank it down, let Will’s lips melt over his own as the man whispered, “Mischa,” once more, and it was seeping into his blood, running through out his limbs, soaking up into his brain. It was life, his Mischa had life suddenly, and she was inside him, kept there by the seal of Will’s mouth, the gentle tug of his hand in Hannibal’s hair. His stomach was fluttering, light and static and sound and everything and nothing pushing up all the way to his mind, where Hannibal registered that _Will was kissing him_ , but he couldn’t connect the idea to why it should be absurd, why it should be so strange. It felt as if it should have always been, just as her name on his lips sounded as if it was meant to be said by him, with that hint of his long buried accent, for his entire life.

Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will’s neck, beckoning him to stay close, felt his breath when his mouth would open and he would whisper it again, _Mischa_ , and she was alive, so alive, and Hannibal’s once more. She was his inside this man, with her name alive and beating. With his heat dragging her memories up fro the ground and letting them bloom-

She was alive. Mischa was alive, inside Hannibal’s memories. Perhaps that was enough.


End file.
